Marisha Pessl - Night Film

After another fifteen minutes, the meter was $60.25. Nora was gnawing her fingernails, and Hopper hadn’t said a word the entire ride, slumped against the seat, staring out the window.

I was about to call it off when, as we were cruising down East Seventy-first, Zeb abruptly slammed on the brakes.

“Dat’s it!” He was indicating a building on our left.

It sat entirely in the dark, a massive townhouse that looked more like an embassy than a residence — pale gray limestone, twenty-five feet wide. It was weathered and run-down, dead leaves strewn across the front steps, the double doors littered with takeout menus — a sure indication no one had been there for weeks.

“We already drove down here,” I said.

“I’m telling you. Dat’s the house. ”

“All right.” I opened the door, and we climbed out. I handed Zeb eighty bucks.

“Peace out, brother.”

Zeb happily tucked the money into his shirt pocket, alongside what looked to be a gigantic half-smoked joint. He turned up the Rolling Stones, and though there was a yellow light at the intersection — yellow lights to Zeb were cues to floor it and pray —he barreled out into Park Avenue in a noisy clanging of loose parts and stuttering transmission, the trunk thudding as he blasted over a pothole and swerved south, leaving us on the quiet street.

We crossed the street to get a better view. It was dim on that side, with just a streetlamp and a high-rise apartment building, its entrance around the corner on Park, so it afforded some privacy to watch the townhouse.

It was after eleven o’clock, the neighborhood deserted. New York might be the city that never slept, but the well-heeled residents of the Upper East Side got tucked into their bespoke sheets around ten.

“Doesn’t look like anyone’s lived there for years,” I noted.

I noticed Hopper was staring intently at the place, the expression on his face unreadable, though I sensed a sort of deep-seated hostility, as if within its hulking grandeur he saw something he detested.

It was unapologetic in its opulence, five stories, a garden on the roof — tree branches could be seen reaching over the top cornice. Every window was dark, a few adorned with heavy curtains, the panes dirty. A narrow covered balcony extended outside the windows on the second floor, detailed with an oxidized copper roof, black iron latticework along the sides and railing. And yet in spite of its lavishness, or because of it, the townhouse had a cold, lonely demeanor.

“Are we going to knock?” whispered Nora.

“You two stay here,” I said.

I headed across the street and skipped up the marble steps strewn with leaves and bits of trash, a deli napkin, a cigarette butt. I rang the bell, noting the black bubble of a security camera above the intercom. I heard it ring inside — a strident clanging straight out of nineteenth-century England — but there was no response.

I pulled out the papers wedged through the mail slot, a Burger Heaven menu and two ads for a twenty-four-hour locksmith. They were faded, warped from the rain. They’d been there for months.

“Some loaded European probably owns it,” I said, moving back to Hopper and Nora. “He uses it two days a year.”

“Only one way to find out,” said Hopper. He took a last drag of his cigarette, chucked it to the ground, and, pulling up the collar of his coat, crossed the street.

“What’s he doing ?” whispered Nora.

Hopper stepped right up to the townhouse, grabbed the black iron grating over the arched window on the ground floor, and began to climb. Within seconds, Hopper was twelve feet off the ground. He paused for a minute, looking down, then stepped on top of one of the old lanterns flanking the front doors and, straddling about five feet of space, grabbed ahold of the concrete ledge of the second-floor balcony.

He hoisted himself higher, dangling there for a few seconds, his gray coat floating around him like a cape. He hooked his right leg over the railing and fell sideways onto the balcony. Immediately, he scrambled to his feet and, with another furtive glance down at the sidewalk, crept along the narrow veranda to the window on the farthest right. Crouching, he shielded his eyes to look through the glass, then fumbled inside his coat for what appeared to be his wallet. He cracked the casement, probably using a credit card, slid the window open, and without the slightest hesitation, he crawled inside.

There was a moment of stillness. He reappeared as a silhouette, slid the window closed, and disappeared.

I was stunned, expecting at any moment now a maid’s bloodcurdling scream or sirens. But the street remained silent.

“What the hell ?” whispered Nora, clamping a hand over her chest. “What do we do ?”

“Nothing. We wait.”

As it turned out, we didn’t have to wait long.

Hopper had been inside not ten minutes when a lone taxi coasted down the street toward us, slowing and stopping directly in front of the townhouse.

“Oh, no,” whispered Nora.

The backseat door opened and a heavyset woman emerged.

“Text Hopper,” I said. “Tell him to get the hell out of there.”

As Nora fumbled for her phone, I slipped between the parked cars, aiming for the woman who was moving up the townhouse steps, digging through her purse, trying to find her keys.

“Excuse me?”

She didn’t turn. She jammed the key in the lock, pushing open one of the doors.

“Ma’am, I’m looking for the nearest subway.”

She darted inside, switching on a light. I caught a fleeting glimpse of a white entryway, a black-and-white checked floor, and as she whisked around, the woman herself, before she slammed the door hard.

A deadbolt clicked, followed by the seven-digit beep of an alarm.

I froze in shock. I knew her.

Suddenly, the lamps over the entrance switched on, bathing me in bright light. She wanted a good look at me in the security camera.

I moved up the steps and rang the doorbell.

There was no response.

I rang it a second time, then a third. Not that I expected her to open the door — it was to alert Hopper. It would signal to him to get the hell out. I jogged swiftly down the steps, heading toward Park. At the corner, I crossed north, finding Nora where I’d left her.

“He’s still inside, ” she whispered. “I texted him but haven’t heard back—”

“You’re not going to believe this. That was Inez Gallo. Cordova’s assistant for years. The Cordovas must own this place.”

It was stupefying —not just that Hopper had broken in, but he was now trapped inside a personal residence of Cordova’s.

Nora, amazed, turned back to the townhouse, where a bright light had just illuminated the second floor, revealing a dark, wood-paneled library, the shelves lined with books.

“Now he has no way out,” Nora whispered. “Should we call nine-one-one?”

“Not yet.”

“But we have to do something. She might shoot him—”

“We need to give him time to look around.”

“How long?”

Distant wails of sirens answered her question. They grew louder, and suddenly three police cars came barreling down the street, screeching to a halt in front of the townhouse. Four policemen jumped out, hastening up the steps, Gallo opening the door, and they disappeared inside. Two cops remained on the front steps, staring suspiciously down the street.

“Time to get the hell out of here,” I said.